My husband keeps berating me for not cooking elaborate meals like his mate’s wife. He refuses to see the difference between their family and ours.
My husband, Richard, never misses a chance to remind me that I don’t whip up fancy dinners like his friend Daniel’s wife, Emily. And sure, Emily’s brilliant—an absolute wizard in the kitchen. I won’t argue, her food tastes divine, but it takes her ages. Cooking is her passion, her sanctuary; she spends all day there, lost in recipes and flavours. Meanwhile, I’m pulled in a dozen directions—work, our child, the house—and his words cut through me like a blade.
Emily’s on maternity leave, living what some mums might call the dream. Her parents—divorced, but doting—can’t get enough of their grandson. They snatch him up first thing, push the pram around the park, feed him, cuddle him, and drop him home by evening. Emily barely lifts a finger. She wakes up, hands the baby over, crawls back into bed, and then leisurely tidies up. Her whole day is free to craft culinary masterpieces—no distractions, no interruptions. She experiments, tries new dishes, and every night, Daniel comes home to something extraordinary. Her family makes that possible, and honestly? Good for her.
But Richard doesn’t see it. He looks at Emily and sees perfection—what he thinks I should be. “She’s on maternity leave, with a kid, and she still manages everything!” he snaps at me. “You just throw together the same quick meals.” His words sting like a slap. Where am I supposed to find five or six hours a day to cook? I’ve got a full-time job, and by evening, I’m racing to pick up our little girl, Lily, from nursery. We’re home by seven, knackered. I make do—roast chicken, jacket potatoes, pasta with a simple salad. It keeps us fed, but to Richard, it’s just fuel for his jabs.
If I tried cooking like Emily, we wouldn’t eat until midnight, and the whole house would go to bed starving. But Richard doesn’t care. All he says is, “Emily surprises Daniel with something new every night. Meanwhile, you couldn’t be bothered.” His admiration for her feels like an indictment of my failure. I’m tired of defending myself. If Emily had the kind of maternity leave most women get—where you’re lucky to find time for a shower—she’d be microwaving frozen dinners too, and Daniel wouldn’t complain.
I’m glad for Emily and Daniel. She’s brilliant, making the most of her time, spoiling her husband with food instead of lounging about. But it hurts that Richard keeps holding her up as the standard. It’s like he refuses to see how different our lives are. I work full days, then rush to get Lily. Emily’s got endless free time—her parents do half the parenting for her. Of course she cooks better! I’d love maternity leave like hers, but our parents aren’t queuing up to babysit. They adore Lily, but won’t spend whole days with her.
Still, Richard won’t let it go. “At least on weekends, you could make an effort,” he grumbles. Am I not human? Don’t I deserve a break? Five days a week I’m slogging at work, and now I’m supposed to spend my whole weekend slaving over the stove to please him? Sometimes I wonder if he’s looking for an excuse to leave. Does he really not see how unfair he’s being? Or does he just enjoy twisting the knife? I’m exhausted trying to prove I’m doing my best. I just want him to see me—his wife, not Emily—scrambling to keep this family afloat.
